Bedside Manner
by Capt-Facepalm
Summary: How Sherlock Holmes copes with an incapacitated flatmate.


**Author's Note:**

This was written for Challenge 015 at the Watson's Woes community on LiveJournal.  
>The challenge was to write a story where Holmes says to Watson <strong><em>"You're useless to me like this." <em>**(for something Watson can not help/it's not his fault).

.oOOo.

Tuesday March 15 1881  
>Early morning hours<p>

While gentle spring rain fell throughout the London night, battles on two fronts raged within the smallest bedroom on the top floor of 221 Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes and Mrs. Hudson were pitted against the fever which ravaged Dr. John Watson, and the doctor was battling demons of his own.

Four days ago, the doctor retired early, complaining of a headache. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary until he failed to appear for breakfast the next day. Let him sleep, advised Mrs. Hudson, she would let the bull pup out for his morning business.

When Watson still remained absent at afternoon tea, the housekeeper suggested that Holmes pop up and make sure the doctor was well. Instead, Holmes found his flatmate quite ill in the throes of a fever. Inconvenient somewhat; unpleasant certainly, but nothing out of the ordinary. The weary doctor apologised for the inconvenience he was causing when they brought him his meal, but advised them to stay away due to the possibility of contagion.

By the third day, his fever progressed from mild delirium to belligerent hallucinations and Watson's state of nervous agitation prevented him from keeping even simple liquids down. Between the nausea and bouts of the sweats, he was dangerously close to dehydration but could not be calmed down enough to take fluids. Mrs. Hudson had given up trying on her own and enlisted Holmes' assistance. She knew from experience that there would be difficult times ahead.

Just when they thought the doctor had finally settled, Watson sat bolt upright again, straining and calling out in some exotic, foreign tongue, lashing out with both arms, thrashing against some unseen adversary.

Holmes wrestled the doctor back to the mattress where he laid panting, eyes wide yet unseeing, his skeletal chest heaving, showing the contours of every bone through his skin, revealing even the scar tissue where once broken ribs had knitted together slightly askew.

On the floor, the little dog was distressed and getting underfoot. Holmes roughly shoved the scruffy mongrel aside with his foot and a snarl of his own. Who in their right mind would give a helpless puppy to an ailing man, he wondered.

Again Watson uttered words in that foreign language. Was it Hindoostani, or perhaps one of the tribal languages of the Afghanis? This time it sounded like begging; piteous and pleading. Then once more, the doctor resumed his attack, arching his back, and lashing out with the remainder of his diminishing strength, desperate to break free.

Holmes had run out of patience long before now. He found a belt in the wardrobe and made a loop. Next, he caught Watson's good arm, secured the loop around his wrist, and tied the loose end to the bedpost. Mrs. Hudson grabbed the doctor's free arm with both hands and held him in place while the detective readied a syringe with a generous dose of morphine.

The doctor's slender arms belied the vigour with which he resisted. There seemed hardly enough muscle for a safe injection. Holmes inserted the needle with the skill of an experienced practitioner, but before he could depress the plunger, the doctor tore his arm away with a jerk, his flesh ripping from where the needle had penetrated; the syringe flying across the room.

Now reacting to the pain, the doctor was fighting back in earnest. A wild flail of his elbow struck Mrs. Hudson on the cheek, knocking her to the floor. Holmes, in desperation, planted his palm on the jagged scar tissue of the doctor's shoulder, and applying his full weight against it, forced the doctor back to the mattress with an agonised scream.

"Restrain his arm again, Mrs Hudson! Sit on him this time if you have to!"

Tears crowded her eyes as Mrs. Hudson held tight for dear life. Holmes, the syringe once again loaded with the powerful sedative, drove one of his knuckles sharply into the nexus of the wounded shoulder. Watson gasped and went completely rigid. Holmes reapplied the needle and successfully depressed the plunger.

Within seconds the doctor relented with a heart-rending sob. He tried to curl up as the drug's effects began to take hold but his restrained arm made that impossible. He lay trembling on his back, his panting gradually subsiding, staring unseeing at the ceiling, silent tears leaving shining trails from his eyes to his pillow.

"I'm sorry Mrs Hudson," said Holmes bitterly, "We were not meant to be nursemaids! If I had known that he was deteriorating instead of recovering, I would never have arranged lodgings with him!"

He never saw it coming. But he felt it long after Mrs. Hudson's tirade ended. The slap rattled his teeth and nearly unseated him from the edge of the doctor's bed.

"Mister Holmes!" the diminutive woman exclaimed, "How dare you say such a thing? That man has been a better friend to you than you deserve! It is not his fault that he has fallen ill! Can you not see how difficult it is for him to become a civilian again?

"Isn't it obvious that he has had a bad war, and isn't it the army's fault that he is on his own with no one to care for him except us? Once they determined he was no longer of use to them, they just let him go! The army released him too soon; they washed their hands of him, and cut him loose to fend for himself before he was ready. It's what they do to so many of their good young men!"

She burst into tears anew as she gathered up the soiled bed linens and fled down the stairs. Holmes began to get the inkling that Mrs. Hudson's reactionary outburst was not entirely about John Watson, but emotions were something he understood poorly at best. With the doctor so naturally gifted in that regard, even in the short time he knew him, Holmes found himself relying on him more and more for that expertise.

"Watson, you must recover! You are useless to me like this!"

A whimper rose from the corner of the room. Holmes retrieved the cowering pup from beneath the dresser and placed him on the bed. It scampered up to Watson's side and nudged insistently at the doctor's arm. Gradually, Watson's hand moved over to rest on the pup's head. Holmes sighed; even the dog had a better understanding of compassion than he did.

.oOOo.

Twenty years later.  
>Charing Cross Hospital.<br>A different medical crisis.

John Watson lay quietly in the corner bed of the casualty ward, struck down, by some blackguard for the sake of the few shillings in his pockets. How long he had lain in the alley was unknown, and the only man who could correctly deduce that fact was more concerned with his friend's current state, than with the misadventure which brought him there in the first place. Sherlock Holmes sat in a chair at Watson's bedside, holding his friend's unresponsive hand.

The nurses came and went.

The doctors came and went.

Days came and went.

They were now into the second week and the once steady stream of visitors and well-wishers had trickled to only a select few. Mrs. Hudson, of course, ignored the ache of her rheumatism and appeared faithfully each morning, giving Holmes a few hours of respite to go home to rest and refresh. Inspector Lestrade was the only other visitor to drop by every day without fail on his way home from work, going far out of his way to do so. The inspector had been in earlier and stayed for nearly an hour that evening.

Holmes looked up as the staff doctor appeared again with two nurses, an orderly, and a wheeled tray; its contents obscured by the sheet which lay folded on top. Was it that time again? Did another day pass already?

"I'm afraid I will have to ask you to step out, Mister Holmes. It is time for his meal. It will take a while, but we will let you know when you can return," the doctor added kindly.

The nurse positioned the privacy screen but not before Holmes caught sight of the uncovered tray containing the feeding tube and other related apparatus. He shuddered and tried not to think about the intrusive procedure as he wandered vaguely towards the exit.

"Mister Holmes?" enquired a familiar voice.

The detective looked up to recognise Inspector Stanley Hopkins walking towards him.

"Oh, hullo, Hopkins," said Holmes without enthusiasm. "Did you draw the short straw tonight?"

"I do beg your pardon, Mister Holmes," the inspector replied hotly, "I am under no obligation to be here other than my own concern for Doctor Watson's well-being. He is my friend too, you know."

Holmes did not reply other than to resume his journey toward the exit.

"You cannot see him now at any rate. His doctor and associated minions are with him; they will be at least half an hour. Join me outside for a smoke, if you wish," said Holmes by way of an apology.

"So, has there been any change?" enquired the young inspector, holding the door for the detective.

"None," replied Holmes, "I thought he had grasped my hand yesterday, no, two days ago, but there has been no repetition of that activity. His doctor concluded it was an involuntary muscle spasm, or a convulsion. I'm not sure I know the difference anymore."

Holmes opened his silver case to offer Hopkins a cigarette only to find it empty. When had he smoked the last one, he wondered.

"Here, Mister Holmes," offered the inspector, "Please have one of mine."

They smoked in silence; their conversation unnecessary. Eventually, a nurse found them and informed Holmes that they were finished for the time being. Both men roused themselves and returned to the familiar ward.

Doctor Watson was much the same as when Holmes left him except for a trace of blood around his left nostril. Hopkins watched with pity as the detective wet his handkerchief with water from the pitcher and proceeded to gently wipe away the remaining evidence of the hospital staff's handiwork. Watson made no move or sound.

"Thank you for dropping by, Hopkins," said Holmes quietly, as a means of dismissal.

"Goodnight, Mister Holmes…" was the reply and his footsteps retreated back down the corridor.

Holmes resumed his seat by the doctor's side and once again picked up the pale, limp hand, hoping for some sign of response.

"Watson, you simply must recover. I am useless when you're like this."

.oOOo.

_Please review!_


End file.
